


And Gone

by recrudescence



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crying, Kink Meme, M/M, Rimming, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still can't tell if Arthur doesn't know his limits or if he gets off on ignoring them. He's decided he doesn't particularly care.</p><p>Inspired by a kink meme prompt: <i>The first time they had sex Arthur cried like a child. And still every time they fuck he can’t hold tears because Eames’ cock is too big for him and his little tight ass. It turns Eames on.</i> YES, I KNOW, OKAY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Gone

This was back when Mal was alive, when she and Cobb were just brilliant but benign researchers and Arthur was the MI golden boy who'd been one of their most dedicated test subjects and ended up becoming part of the team. Staid, scholarly work, giving a presentation at some conference about the dangers of extraction and the very real threat of thought crime.

This was before Eames knew any of them personally at all.

Eames was only there to mingle and learn what the bigwigs were saying, since it was wise to be up on these things and learn about any advances in the industry that could hinder it for people like him.

Standard fare. Meeting them, marking them, bearing identification and proffering business cards for a name and corporation not his own. A little choice ingratiation-- _I'm very impressed with your work, Mr. Cobb; please, tell me more_ \--and it was just another day at the office.

He was vague at first, telling Cobb he worked with a European team focused on refining PASIV technology. “We're a small group, but we're very intrigued by other organizations in the field, of course.”

And Cobb seemed ready to swallow that whole and let the conversation turn back to himself, but his wife gave an artful little smile. “Really? Would I have heard of them?”

“Doubtful. We're only a start-up.”

The other one spoke up, then, the skinny one with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. “Maybe they're not the sort of team who's keen on being heard of.”

Eames shot Cobb an amused glance. “Your secretary is a little presumptuous.”

“Yeah, well, this _secretary_ 's heard a few things about what kind of 'refining' certain people have been doing.”

Mrs. Cobb was quick on the uptake, not appearing at all surprised when Eames reacted to the accusation without so much as a blink. “He means the idea of subconscious identity theft. Is it really happening? I've only heard rumours about the possibilities.”

Eames. Smiling. “That depends on which possibilities you've heard.”

“So it _is_ true. Changing identities in a dream?”

They were _precious_. Eager and bright-eyed, like children finding bicycles under the Christmas tree. They'd probably been hoping to run into a real live forger for months. _Not_ throwing them some sort of bone to keep their tails wagging would just be callous.

Eames shrugged affably. “I've mostly heard it referred to as forgery.”

The skinny kid was looking irritated. “Just heard, huh? Cobb, maybe we shouldn't be asking a criminal.”

Cobb seemed untroubled. “Even if he turns out to be an honorable criminal? I think it's fascinating that there have been advances in the extraction game that have occurred solely under the table.”

“As do I,” Eames agreed. “But you'll understand if I'm not too keen on sharing the minutiae of them with someone whose primary work has been in your area.”

Instead of getting his knickers in a twist, Cobb actually grinned, thereby endearing himself to Eames for a very long time. “I think I do.”

“Are we agreeing not to bother each other, then?”

Mrs. Cobb was still regarding him steadily, eyes gleaming with unasked questions. “For now, I suppose we are. Please excuse us.”

The skinny one lingered behind. “What did you say your name was?” He was flicking Eames's business card into a standing ashtray as he asked.

Eames extended a hand. “I'm Eames.”

“That's not what it says on your name tag.”

“Are you going to believe what you see or what I say?”

The kid cocked an eyebrow. “I'm Arthur.”

His name tag didn't match his words either.

 

\---

 

The presentation itself was a disaster. An intellectual, invitation-only disaster with delectable hors d'oeuvres, but a disaster nonetheless.

It happened somewhere around the details of a case that had centered on an elderly woman in a coma and an extraction performed on her at the behest of family members anxious to learn about her thoughts on resuscitation. Eames found it fascinating they'd managed to succeed in rendering a comatose subconscious habitable at all, but he was in the minority.

Then the same old skeptics started throwing out the same old chestnuts. Debating whether such things were possible at all, whether evidence garnered through dream infiltration could be considered remotely credible, whether this was a legitimate science or only a glorified method of making hearsay appear more elevated than it was.

Cobb and Mal fielded questions with the practiced ease of soldiers inventorying their fortifications, but Arthur took his leave somewhat earlier. Eames located him, rather predictably, at the bar.

“Not taking it well, I see.” Without invitation, he took a seat and ordered two glasses of scotch. “You've never set a single toe out of line before, have you?”

“Don't,” Arthur snapped, “act like you know me.”

“But I do.” Eames pushed a tumbler his way. “When it matters, I really think I do. You're a good boy, used to being at the top of your game. Not having the right people on your side must be killing you.”

“Are you implying you're someone I should want on my side?”

“You do, don't you?”

Arthur grunted. They drank.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Arthur was the one to proposition him, clearly looking for a distraction.

It happened there, in Eames's white-swathed hotel room in Sacramento. Cream-vanilla virginal, more fitting than he realised. Kissing him, undressing him, slipping a finger up between the cheeks of his arse, soothing the tremors from Arthur's body and licking the whiskey from his tongue. Toying with adding a second finger, but pausing when Arthur stiffened and hissed.

Eames stripped the shirt from his shoulders, running kisses up his spine. “Haven't you ever?”

Ending up with Arthur caught up against his chest, mouth red-open-wanton, lashes fluttering and hair tousled to just-fucked perfection even though they'd only just begun. “I...” gasping, groaning, swearing softly as Eames let that finger slip in a little deeper. “No, no, I— _fuck_.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eames murmured, pitying and soothing and wicked all at once. “There are so many sad things about you, do you know that? I hope you're sure about this.”

“Somehow,” Arthur hissed back, “I did okay making my own choices before I met you.” And he _clenched_ , working himself down onto Eames's fingers with a soft little sound that had Eames's eyes crossing. “Now fuck me or go fuck yourself. It's up to you.”

There was really no argument to be made. Eames cleared his throat. “Perfect manners win me over every time.”

He abandoned the conversation in favor of ducking, nuzzling the small of his back, his other hand sliding up the center of Arthur's body until he was licking at his fingertips, sucking them into his mouth. His lips were soft and the sounds coming from him were the most wonderful kind of lewd, and Eames had fingers filling him in two places and Arthur was _writhing_ between them, his breaths tremulous and his body almost unbelievably tight. Eames came close to hesitating, which was something that _never_ happened when he had the head of his cock pressing inside a delectably tight piece of arse, but said piece of arse actually _growled_ at him when his movements faltered, which was as good a go-ahead as any.

And through it all, Arthur didn't utter another word. He shuddered, he arched, and he _bit_ , severe white teeth digging into Eames's fingers to keep them from slipping from his mouth, whining around them when Eames's cock went thrusting into him, over and over until his body was shuddering with the force of his orgasm and sobs.

Literally. Sobs.

Eames let him push his face into a pillow and work through it on his own, assuming it was because the conference had been so disappointing. It made sense and, if he was honest with himself, he was uncomfortable thinking about it any further. Extraction was a frustrating field. He didn't comment, just grazed a kiss against one smooth shoulder blade and slipped away to the bathroom. When he emerged, there was no sign Arthur had ever been there at all.

That was four years ago. Eames didn't expect to meet again. Then Cobb started running.

 

\---

 

The first day after Cobb returns from Kenya with Yusuf and Eames, Arthur shows up at Eames's flat. They size each other up yet again, which isn't unexpected, but Eames has trouble keeping his face neutral all the same.

Arthur still has that same wiry strength and distrustful gaze, but he's more acerbic, more rigid, as if he's been whittled down to the bare essentials. His cheekbones are as sharp as his suit. Tailored, close-fitting, inhumanly flattering suit. It shouldn't be legal to look that good in a suit, and Eames normally doesn't give a damn what's legal and what isn't.

“Hello again,” he says, gesturing him in.

Arthur's voice is brusque, firm, like the click of the closing door. “Just because Dom thinks you're something special doesn't mean you are. We're here to work.”

“Of course.”

Then Arthur launches himself at him, lapels wrenched in both hands, tongue forcing its way into Eames's mouth, breath coming hot and wanton, and that's all she wrote.

It's fast and brutal. Arthur's nails leave scratches down Eames's back, Arthur's mouth purses wetly around Eames's fingers; there's the mess of lube from a container in Arthur's pocket, the fumbling process of a condom being slicked on, since _someone_ came into this prepared and it certainly wasn't Eames, but he can wait to discuss that, really he can.

The bed isn't far and Arthur is beautiful bent over it, trousers at his ankles, voice rough and demanding for more and harder, having Eames take him over the side of the bed while both of them are still half-clothed. And this part, at least, is just the way Eames remembers him, Arthur and his tight little mouth, tight little movements, tight little arse that clutches around his cock so fucking hard it's nearly _painful_. Eames comes with his teeth biting down against the sweaty-slick skin of Arthur's nape and the velvety, obscene sensation of Arthur's mouth stretched and sucking around three of his fingers.

Once again, there's wetness at the corners of his eyes when they're done. Arthur shifts enough to wipe at it and Eames doesn't mention it at first because he surmises it's only from exertion. Then he eases out and Arthur utters a sound too telling to be ignored.

“Arthur.” He feels moronic standing there with his trousers at his knees and an arm poised in the midst of tossing the condom in the bin, but this seems to demand all his attention. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Christ.” There's only a lamp or two illuminating the room, but it's enough. “Are you _crying_?”

“ _No_.” Petulantly.

Eames takes a seat, turning Arthur onto his back, drawing him up onto the bed. It's a pleasant surprise that Arthur allows it. “I hurt you.”

He looks furious, breathtaking in a way that has all the blood in Eames's body shooting south even though he's aware that isn't the most appropriate reaction. Arthur scowls at him, tear tracks smudged over the flushed skin of his face, brow screwed up in a frown. “Okay, you know what? Fuck you. It's not a big deal. We hurt people every day. That's what we _do_.”

“Not like this.” Rubbing a palm over his ribs and stomach, watching him scrub at his eyes, chest heaving and jaw clenching to keep his breathing steady, with lukewarm results. “Tell me why.”

For a while, Arthur just repeats what he did in Sacramento, grimacing and hiding his face in a pillow. This time, Eames stays with him and strokes his back, feeling the sobs shake free of him and wondering what the hell kind of job he just signed on for.

“Look,” Arthur finally says, voice ragged and pillow-stifled, “it's not your fault. You gave me everything I asked for. Well done.”

“Why can't you let me know what I did wrong? If we're going to work together, you have to start somewhere.”

Arthur pushes up onto one arm and glares at him. “Because telling a guy their dick is too much for you to handle is like giving them a gold-leaf invitation to be as much of an asshole as possible.”

Eames is quiet. “You really, really don't think very highly of me, do you?”

“I don't,” says Arthur, “even know you.”

“You could start,” offers Eames.

Arthur doesn't say anything else. Not that evening, scarcely at all the next day.

Eames corners him when it's only the two of them in the workspace. “Have you been with _anyone_ else since Sacramento?”

“Oh, _Jesus_.”

“I'm not judging you.”

“How generous.”

“I'm just letting you know since you don't seem to expect anything better of me.” Frowning. “Or have you decided, somewhere over the last four years, you aren't attracted to men after all?”

Arthur mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“I said I love cock, okay?” Arthur shouts.

Their little prodigy of an architect pops her head up from behind a model, an earphone dangling from one hand. “Did you say something?”

Arthur looks as close to mortified as he could ever come.

“We'll continue this later,” Eames tells him cheerfully. “Ariadne, how's that corridor coming?”

 

\---

 

“So that was a yes to liking cock, I believe.”

“Funny.” Arthur has his arms full of lattes and looks like a completely innocuous office boy. The look he shoots Eames, on the other hand, is pure authority. “We're not talking about things like that during work.”

“We're not at work yet,” Eames points out, plucking a croissant out of the bag he's carrying and digging in.

“Fine.” Arthur adjusts his hold on the coffees, apparently immune to the charm of Paris in the morning. “Since I know you're dying to ask, yes, I've had sex since meeting you, so don't go putting yourself on a pedestal just yet. No, not for a long time, not counting the other night. Yes, your dick is freakishly huge and it hurts like a bitch. No, that's not actually your fault, though I'm sure plenty of other things are.” He glances around the street and picks up the pace. “If anyone around here understands English and caught all that, I'm quitting the business and becoming a professional basket-weaver.”

Eames could swear he just caught a flash of something vaguely resembling a sense of humour. “So you're out of practice. Nothing to be defensive about.” He takes another bite of his croissant and lets himself fall back a few steps so he can sneak a glance at just how well Arthur's trousers fit from behind, which is very well indeed.

“I'm not defending anything. I'm explaining.”

“What's freakish is how stubborn you are. If something isn't up your street, say so. Don't try to hide it.”

“I never said it didn't feel good.” And it's true. Both times, Arthur had wanted it rough. Both times, he'd writhed and clenched and _taken_ and Eames had been too selfish to even consider stopping. “It's,” Arthur frowns, as if annoyed with himself, “difficult.”

Eames shrugs. “Haven't you read my CV? Difficult situations are one of my specialties. Even if I am freakish.” And if the definition of freakish includes getting hot and bothered by thinking of tears streaming down that far too serious face again, Arthur's absolutely right in using the word.

When they make it into the warehouse, Eames doesn't do anything remotely untoward for the entire day, since for some reason Arthur doesn't seem to believe he's capable of that. Eames could choose to be insulted that his work history doesn't speak for itself, but he's fairly sure Arthur's been bred to be suspicious of everything. Arthur lags behind to do some more prodding at Fischer's file and it isn't until later that evening there's a knock on Eames's door.

“I stand corrected,” is all he says when Eames opens it. It isn't quite an apology or a thank you, but it'll do.

Eames hauls him in by the knot of his tie. Arthur's mouth is sweet and rough over his own.

Maybe it's ill-advised, but Eames likes a good challenge outside of work, always has, whether it's counting cards or cracking safes. It's not healthy to be consumed by a job entirely. Surely Arthur's aware of that. Working for Cobb must leave a mark on a man. Working for Cobb most certainly left a mark on _Cobb_.

“Let me see how you do it,” he says, when Arthur is gasping against him and those thin-strong fingers are clasped around his cock. “I'd like to know.”

Arthur doesn't argue, stripping off recklessly, leaving clothes here and there on his way to the bed.

He's slim and toned and hard, touching only his cock first, head back and throat exposed, fist wrapped around the flushed length of his erection. Eames has touched nearly every part of him, but never gotten to _look_ quite like this.

“Lovely. Now show me the way you fuck yourself.”

Arthur complies, circling a hastily slicked fingertip against his entrance, feet pressed to the mattress and legs spread, and Eames feels his _own_ body rush with heat at the way Arthur arches as he slides that first finger in. He swallows, drifting a hand down between his legs. “A little harder. You like it that way, don't you? Even if it's too much for you. There's no shame in knowing your limits.” His voice sounds too rough.

On the bed, Arthur's head lolls in a lazy nod. “Lucky for you, right?” He adjusts himself to a slightly different angle and Eames can see every centimetre of that long, wet-gleaming finger the next time Arthur withdraws it. “Eames,” he says, and he doesn't sound frustrated or embarrassed or anything but certain. “C'mere.”

He sheds his clothes quietly before crossing the room and stroking over the insides of Arthur's knees, thighs, bending to lick the head of his cock, the peak of a nipple, the curve of his lips. Arthur's eyes are squeezed shut, hips rolling down onto his own hand, and the sounds coming from him are beautifully filthy. “Another.”

And Arthur wriggles down onto two of his own fingers, Eames watching all the while, acutely aware that his cock is hard to the point of aching. “Does that feel good? Not enough? What else do you want?”

Arthur's eyes only open for the briefest of moments, glittering and black.

“You. One of yours.”

For a few very frustrating seconds, Eames can't respond to that at all.

When his mind deigns to catch up, Eames wastes no time sliding a finger in alongside both of Arthur's own and the reaction is immediate. “ _Shit_. Yeah, like that, 's good.” Arthur, _babbling_ , without the right words for once, and that lean body clenches around him so intensely Eames can't be sure he's not spewing nonsense right alone with him.

“So damned tight, how do you ever manage to get fucked?” They both know the answer, and either that or the question itself has the effect of making Arthur moan and contract even more. Eames breath is heavy as he goes about drizzling lube over his hand, spilling onto the covers, working his fingers inside him once Arthur's own hands are splayed over his back. He moves as slowly as he can, soothing him with licks and kisses against his cock, sucking away the steady spill of precome. “On your hands and knees, love, let's try that. If you'd rather not, I—"

Arthur twists around to glare at him, though his eyes seem rather unfocused. “ _Enough_ with the goddamn chivalry, Eames, just fuck me.”

“Hush,” mildly. Easing inside, gentling him through it. “God, you're amazing, so hot, move for me, fuck yourself for me, that's it, darling, keep going. _Fuck_.”

This time, he does what he can to hold back and let Arthur set the pace, but Arthur won't have it, shoving back onto him and swearing until there's no helping it. Arthur's hands catching in the covers and his moans muffled against the mattress, back a delicious curve, thighs straining to part further, so slick and hot and _ready_ , and still he's pressing his face to the pillow and shuddering.

He does come, over his own stomach and Eames's hand, but his shoulders are shaking tellingly and Eames can't keep his hands from gripping a little harder over Arthur's hips. It's very possible he's still sore and just not willing to admit it, but neither of them have mentioned it and in this moment Eames is too inconsiderate to care. And something about that, Arthur being too proud to admit any kind of weakness, makes him want to fuck him all over again until Arthur's too overwhelmed and sensitive to do anything but beg for him to _stop_.

Once again, he lets Eames ease him onto his back, kiss his mouth and stroke his hair until he calms down. Kissing over him, cautiously checking for blood. Then Eames takes his time sucking his half-softened cock back into fullness until Arthur's toes are curling and he's whimpering and clutching at Eames's hair. His thighs are slick and taut and Eames would love to slide a finger up into all that clenching heat while he's swallowing him down, but he knows when to leave well enough alone.

“No more for a little while, I think,” he murmurs, once he's able to say anything at all. Arthur's mouth is working over the knuckles of his unsoiled hand and it's the best kind of distraction. “If you're in pain, you'll be in a worse mood than usual.” On a slightly less altruistic note, he's perfectly content with the idea of just letting Arthur suck him off, but he leaves that part out. “I'm sorry. Shouldn't have tried it again so soon.”

“That...” Arthur starts, looking at Eames as if he can convey the rest of the sentence with the intensity of his gaze rather than words. Eames lets him.

“I'm not a complete tosser,” Eames tells him. He thinks Arthur comes close to smiling.

 

\---

 

They're careful. During the day, Eames is nothing but upright. Compartmentalising has never been a problem for him. If Arthur gropes him up a time or two in the bathroom, no one's the wiser. They snipe and bicker and hammer out plans along with the rest of the group, but then he declines Yusuf's offer to get drinks after work one too many times—Yusuf is often the last to leave—and when Yusuf jokingly asks who he's going home to, Eames finds he hesitates just a hair before responding.

“Oh,” he says. The smugness is overpowering.

“Oh, _nothing_ ,” is the best retort Eames can conjure up on such short notice.

“If it's Cobb, you're in way over your head,” Yusuf informs him, as if he knows this for a fact. “If it's Ariadne, you're a very bad man.”

Eames snickers.

“A _worse_ man,” Yusuf says adamantly. “If it's—”

“Don't,” Eames warns, “continue that sentence.”

Yusuf turns on his heel, smirking. Eames is tempted to trip him.

Maybe he's getting sloppier than he's realised. He's used to this, the way Arthur has of showing up at odd hours, whenever he's finished poring over his laptop and finally needs a break. He's used to Arthur's mouth around him, Arthur's limbs bare against his sheets, Arthur inexplicably having the Banana Phone song as his wake-up ringtone. And he tells himself there's no harm in it, since their work is all-consuming and it's only natural to want something to take the edge off.

Once or twice, he wonders if Arthur makes a habit of it, then has to remind himself that there are many very good reasons they don't exchange personal information.

It isn't long before Arthur decides he has to go poke around Fischer's world, making sure they know everything they need to know. He claims to have already hacked into as much of his life as possible remotely, bribing and coaxing information from colleagues, therapists, any records he could crack. Eames will be leaving soon as well, to do his work with Browning.

Though there's a possibility their paths will cross, they agree its best they don't.

Eames says his goodbyes the night before, spreading him open and working at him with lips and tongue this time, vulnerable muscle pink and delicate and flickering open beneath his mouth, then going tight and closed the instant he stops. Arthur was right when he described himself as difficult, his body shyly shutting itself away and refusing to cooperate if Eames doesn't give it enough attention.

The dildo is a risky step, even though it's not half as large as some of the other options on the market. It's a true sign of progress that Arthur doesn't breathe a single protest when Eames shows it to him, which makes Eames wonder if maybe he should have invested in something a little more ambitious. But when he has Arthur lounging back against his chest, his own legs holding Arthur's spread apart, and he's reaching down to fuck him with it, the only thing on his mind is _yes_.

Watching Arthur do the same is almost as good. Maybe better, since Eames has both hands free, playing over his cock and nipples and now and then slipping a finger into Arthur's open mouth. Asking, when Arthur's teeth clench down on Eames's thumb and a strangled, breathless sound practically _wrenches_ out of him, if he's ready for more.

His own cock is damp at the tip smearing against the small of Arthur's back, trapped there between their bodies, and Arthur automatically starts getting into position. But Eames only clucks and tells him that he isn't going to be fucking him tonight. Not like that. Instead, he takes his time bringing him off with mouth and fingers and words.

Urging Arthur to let loose a little is never easy. Looking after Cobb is a twenty-four hour job and Eames imagines Arthur probably hasn't had any time to himself for a long while.

“You love this, don't you?” he says afterward.

Arthur stiffens.

“Being on the run, I mean,” Eames continues. “Setting your own rules. I don't think you knew you could take to it as much as you have.”

“That's very poetic,” mutters Arthur.

Eames digs a little deeper. “It's only natural to feel bad for it sometimes. You never would have had this life until Cobb lost everything important in his own.”

Arthur turns over, his face in the shadows. “Not everything. He has his work.”

“And he has you. How could I forget?”

Arthur doesn't answer. “You never liked rules.” He sounds both accusing and amused.

“You would be right.” But this isn't a conversation about him. He leans over to trace a knuckle down Arthur's spine. “Bring yourself back in one piece and I'll have something waiting for you when you get here.”

“Classy.” Snorting, then shifting lower until he's able to lap somehow casually along Eames's cock. “I'm not that interested in what you don't like. The things you _do_ like, though, that's where it gets interesting.” He licks a long, slow stripe from the base of Eames's erection to the tip, pausing to glance up and crook a half-smile. “And I know you like it when I cry.”

Inelegantly, Eames's first reaction is to deny everything. “Whatever gave you—“

“Don't think I didn't notice.” Arthur's mouth is still quirked teasingly, but his voice is low, raw. He takes in the head of Eames's cock and sucks hard, the sound of it revoltingly audible, lips damp when he looks up again. “I could cry for you now.”

Of course, Eames is immediately imagining it. Arthur, red-faced and swollen-lipped and trying his best to _swallow_ around him, tears streaming from closed eyes and clinging to his lashes. His cock flushes a little fuller and Arthur's smile widens. “It gets you off.”

“We're not talking about me,” Eames says with all the finality he can pull together, fumbling through the sheets until he finds the dildo from earlier. “Use this when I'm not around. You'll do it, won't you?”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur simpers, which is somehow not as disturbing as it should be, and then that mouth is on his neck, on his cock, and Eames is almost able to forget about the conversation they've almost had.

 

\---

 

He stays busy. Teaching Ariadne how to handle a gun between classes. Teaching Saito how to handle uncertainty between purchases. Sending lewd text messages to Arthur between it all.

Arthur returns, but Eames isn't there to see it, taking some time of his own to snoop around Fischer-Morrow and shadow Browning a bit more to ensure he's got him as right as possible. He receives the odd briefing, usually by way of Yusuf, regarding the developments everyone's made in his absence. Yusuf, bless him, doesn't once steer off-topic.

Arthur's updates are slightly more distracting.

When he finally does have occasion to fuck him properly, it's with their flight only days away and everyone's emotions running high.

Including his own, apparently, since evening finds him holding up a condom and pausing. “Must we?”

Arthur only arches an eyebrow.

“I might be a bit of a slut in dreams, but I'm not irresponsible outside of them,” Eames adds, though he's not sure he's making much of a case for himself.

“Let me guess, you're about to magically produce a squeaky-clean medical history to prove it, is that right?”

“You think I'd fabricate something that important?” Feigning heartbreak.

“You're such a douchebag.” He sounds so petty, Eames grins.

“Why do I put up with you at all, then, if I'm such a douchebag?” he counters, doing what he thinks is a top-notch imitation of Arthur's accent.

“Mmm.” Arthur draws him in, humming against his ear, nipping at it. “Doesn't matter. Wanna feel you in me again. Missed you.”

It's probably the most affectionate thing Arthur's ever said to him

Eames doesn't give him time to say anything else.

It's idiotic how this has become routine, Eames aching to fuck into him as hard as possible and still somehow holding himself back. But by having Arthur straddle him and set the pace that way, he gets a spectacular view of his cock disappearing into Arthur's body, little by little. No barrier, nothing but _heat_ enclosing him. Arthur doesn't ride all the way down at first, teasing whether he knows it or not, thighs taut from the strain. Eames would like nothing better than to bear him down into the mattress and make him scream, but he can't stop _watching_.

Arthur's hair is mussed out of its usual confines and he's staring at Eames like he's throwing down a gauntlet, a furrow marring his brow. He doesn't look happy about it, but he allows it when Eames urges him off to finger him open a little longer. It has Arthur rolling his eyes, but moving onto his hands and knees anyway, dripping into the bedclothes. He only snaps when Eames lays a hand to his back in order to keep him in place.

“Again,” Arthur rasps. His eyes are a little watery—and hell if that doesn't have Eames's cock throbbing like he's still going through fucking _puberty_ —but he hisses and grinds down onto Eames's fingers. “Fuck me again.”

“I don't think—”

“It sucked,” Arthur says bluntly, twisting out from under him. “You could've done much better than that. Show me.”

“Bad idea.”

Fiercely, grinding his erection into Eames's hip, “Do it. I want the neighbours thinking you're killing someone in here.”

Eames kisses him. “You have no idea what I can do to you.”

He bites, teeth sinking into Eames's lips too hard for it to be pleasurable. “I know you can go easy on me. Maybe I don't want that this time. I don't think you do either.”

 

\---

 

As always, he's sure to use one hand for lube and keep the other clean for Arthur's mouth, letting Arthur slurp and lap over his fingers while Eames is inside him.

This time, Eames moves all at once, in a full smooth stroke, into the hot clutch of slick-tight muscle. Arthur actually utters his name in something that's nearly a whine, clenching around his cock, hands clenching at his shoulders. Those dark lashes brushing wine-red cheeks, lips wet and swollen when Eames draws back his hand so he can kiss them. He's needy and perfect like this, squirming down on Eames's cock and up into his own hand, breathing harshly and sounding far too shaky when he tells Eames to fuck him faster.

Eames is having none of it, not yet, clasping his hips and holding him down. Arthur is hot to the touch and rippling, responsive, like molten metal under his hands.

“ _Okay_ ,” Arthur grates out, almost a growl. “Look, I'm sorry I called your dick freakish. I'm over that. It's great. Now come on, _harder_.” He sounds pissed as hell, but there's a tremble in his voice.

Eames grits his teeth, watching, waiting for the tears to spill. “Go on, let it out. You know I don't care.”

“Yeah, actually, you do.” Eames rolls his hips harder and his words catch.

“Does it hurt?”

Arthur nods, head lagging forward as Eames rocks into him.

“Do you want me to stop?”

His face is wet against the crook of Eames's neck. Jesus fucking _Christ_. “No.”

He still can't tell if Arthur doesn't know his limits or if he gets off on ignoring them. He's decided he doesn't particularly care.

“How does it feel?” Toeing the line, giving a vicious little shove up into him, hearing Arthur's breath hitch wildly.

“Like too much. Like you're in me and it's too much and I can't take it.” His head tips back, and for once he doesn't instantly turn it against the pillows. Eames has to remind himself to breathe.

“But you can.” He can taste the salt on Arthur's cheeks. “You can.”

Arthur glares, wrenching him back by the hair. “Yeah. I can. Come. _On_.”

Eames bears him down onto his back, easing out until only the head of his cock remains inside, catching on the rim of his hole. It's incredible, the way Arthur opens up for him, the obscene sounds he makes when Eames thrusts into him, cock shoving into his arse more violently than he's ever dared. “Like that?” Arthur's face is screwed up in honest to God _torment_ and Eames doesn't think he could stop if Arthur told him to.

Arthur says nothing of the sort. “Fuck. _Yeah_.”

Over and over again, grinding into him, only occasionally angling to skim over his prostate—it's not so much about giving pleasure, not just yet. This is hard and filthy, it's Arthur's chest heaving uncontrollably and Eames's voice at his ear, telling him how he's such a slut for it, how doesn't know how to say no. All this time, just could've given it to him like this from the start, no point in trying to treat him like a human when he's willing to take it like a goddamn animal. And Arthur's only answer to it all is a helpless, choked-out _please_.

He keeps at it, brutal, and Arthur's fingers are clawed over his back, one leg locked over his shoulder and the other splayed out, bent. Arthur eggs him on, goading him until his words devolve into into hiccuping breaths. Eames is still telling him things, hardly noticing it, hopelessly soppy things like _you feel wonderful_ and _move for me, darling_ and _such a beautiful body_ , completely at odds with his actions. Arthur doesn't respond except by gripping at Eames's back and arse, pulling him in on each thrust as if he can take him deeper still.

Arthur's cock is still hard, leaking beads of wetness against his stomach. Eames wraps a hand around it, delighting in the way it flushes and drips, making a little puddle of fluid on his abdomen for Eames to draw his fingers through and slip into Arthur's waiting mouth since he loves sucking his fingers so much, an oral fixation that makes Eames wonder if he was slow to stop sucking his thumb as a child.

When his fingers fall free, it takes Eames a moment to realise it isn't because Arthur doesn't enjoy it but because he physically can't keep his mouth closed anymore. Shaking with sobs, teeth bared, saliva glistening on his lips and chin. He doesn't do a thing but moan when Eames twists him over onto his side, hefting one of his legs out of the way in order to fuck him from that angle. His hole is reddened, abused, smeared with whiteness from Eames's cock, still clenching tight the instant he pulls out. The rest of him puts up no resistance. Pliant. Arthur is _never_ pliant. It's almost enough to give him pause.

Arthur's face leaves tearstained patches on the sheets and he's almost too incoherent to utter a word, but Eames catches one. “ _More_.”

Eames obliges and it's only a moment before his entire body somehow tightens even _more_ , all at once. Eames cursing a blue streak, Arthur trembling and losing himself in Eames's hand, not crying out except in pleasure this time.

Kissing is out of the question. It's more of an assault than anything else, but Eames forces his tongue into the heat of Arthur's mouth anyway. Arthur's face is red, wet-streaked, rubbed raw in places from Eames's stubble. His mouth is slack and open, too far gone to respond in kind, not able to do more than sob into Eames's kiss as he's coming inside him. _Coming_ , hilt-deep inside Arthur and _still_ fucking him like he can't remember how to do anything else.

Eames has no concept of how long it takes for him to start seeing straight again. None at all.

The first thing he registers is that Arthur still hasn't quieted. Eames strokes over him clumsily, rubbing a palm between his shoulders, kissing his face a time or two. He has no concept of how long this takes either, but the important thing is that Arthur lets him, sobs gradually subsiding into steady breathing. Only then does Eames speak.

“You're all right?”

He nods, still stretched on his stomach, legs parted. Eames has half a mind to press a few fingers inside him to keep him stretched. Or maybe slip his thumbs between his cheeks, part him open enough for Eames to wriggle his tongue up into him and taste there.

What he does instead, since Arthur is in dire need of them, is grab a box of tissues and pass it to him.

Arthur snorts, seeming ready to fall asleep right then and there. “Thanks.” Then he actually smiles.

Eames tries to take stock of things when he enters dangerous situations. He's positive he'll be unable to stop himself from staring at the way Arthur's trousers flatter his arse. Or from leaning over, palms flat to the worktable, to hell with the rule about not doing these things during hours, and kissing him the instant Cobb's back is turned. He would like to be confident about his ability to prevent that, but he always tries to leave room for error.

There's really only one solution.

“When we finish with Fischer, I'm keeping you in bed for a month.”

Arthur doesn't quite smile this time, but there's a glint of something in his eyes that Eames can't get enough of. It might very well be a liability waiting to happen. “If we don't die, I might even let you.”


End file.
